


Coefficient of Determination

by powderblew



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempt at Humor, Canon Divergence, Coming of Age, Doing Oikawa justice, F/M, Fluff, Manager!Reader, Mild Smut, Slice of Life, more characters as the fic continues, no beta we die like men, reader is a female, that one manager fic that I needed to write ofc, turned math into a weapon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 05:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29745822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/powderblew/pseuds/powderblew
Summary: What is the probability of two singular entities becoming one? No amount of statistics, variables, or numbers can ever define their relationship. —Oikawa/Reader ; Manager!Reader
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Reader
Comments: 40
Kudos: 59





	1. before you came around (I was doing just fine)

Strawberry.

To be honest, she prefers strawberry-flavored pocky than the matcha. The matcha has an almost chemical-like aftertaste to it, perhaps it’s the brand or maybe it’s the packaging—she doesn’t know. She’s not going to stop buying this brand however, it gives her more bang for her buck.

The crumbs from the drier edge of the pocky stick to her fingertips and she rolls the stick between her fingers before pressing the pad of her thumb to her tongue.

A little after noon, between language and science, she decides to venture outside the school. Still on campus, but not necessarily inside the building. Fall is coming soon, she can feel it when the wind whispers behind her knees and the smell of leaves slip through the cracks of the branches.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Art class?” Iwaizumi asks from the closest door near the window.

She rolls her eyes, “You know as well as I do that class doesn’t start until ten minutes.”

He shrugs – she sees it from her line of vision – and he leans over the metal rail in front of them, “I figured I would ask; you’re a bit out of it today.”

“I think I’m getting a cold,” she sniffs and keeps her eyes on the oak tree in front of her.

“I think,” Iwaizumi starts with a snort, “That you’re trying to put off our meeting.”

“I am _not_ ,” she’s lying, blatant and obvious when she turns her to look back up at him, “I just wanted some fresh air.”

“To accelerate your cold,” he deadpans.

She scowls and crosses her arms underneath her chest, “Do you honestly think I’m happy that you blackmailed me into watching your practice?”

“I prefer the term extortion,” he shoots a smug smile and rolls his shoulders, “Besides you owed me from that storm—”

“—if I knew that a typhoon was going to drown Tokyo after dinner I wouldn’t have gone to visit,” she huffs and points at him, “And you _offered_ to let me crash at your place.”

“For a few days, not a week,”

“I was _sick!_ ”

“Semantics,” he waves it off; nonsense. Sometimes they talk like that, it’s a roundabout way of asking if _are you okay with what’s happening_ , a jumble of words, handful of syntax and pauses in between breaths.

She sighs; it’s nothing really, just procrastination—it has nothing to do with her impending popularity.

It’s fine.

He—they just don’t _see_ it.

But she does, she always has.

.

“So _you’re_ Iwaizumi’s secret weapon,” Matsukawa asks with a lazy drawl and tilts his head at her stature, “You’re a good height. Around what? One hundred-seventy centimeters?”

“Secret weapon?” she cocks a brow at that and presses a hand against her hip, “I don’t play volleyball and I’m only here to _watch._ ”

“I roped her into watching a few practice games,” Iwaizumi shakes his head and scowls, “She’s been avoiding them for the longest time.”

“I don’t like sports,” she says flatly and ignores the dramatic stares. Perhaps it’s the wrong thing to say in an environment like this, but she doesn’t really care. She has other things to think of, dinner for one and maybe her bed. There’s a marathon of an old anime she used to watch as a kid, that’s something to look forward to, but with Iwaizumi guilt-tripping her into watching a game – she secretly allows him to because she wants to support him, but she would rather shove needles beneath her fingernails than admit that out loud – she’s not prepared to handle the volleyball team’s _fans_ even more.

“If it’s not animated, my best friend here isn’t going to watch,” Iwa slings an arm around her shoulders and chuckles when she shrugs him off.

“Best friend, Iwa-chan, I am _hurt,_ ” Another voice makes his way onto the court and she turns her head.

Oikawa looks surprised at the pretty girl with the quiet look on her face standing on the court, surrounded by his teammates. Iwaizumi shifts his gaze from his best friend to their captain. He scratches the back of his head, “Captain, she’s just going to watch the practice.”

“What else am I going to do?” She rolls her eyes, not wanting to deal with the possible questions that the team would have her, and makes her way to the bleachers.

“Aren’t you in Kojo-sensei’s class?” Oikawa suddenly calls out to her just as she’s about to take a seat.

She blinks at the seats for a moment, then slowly, turns around, her upper body loose, almost as if she’s expecting a blow and she drops her bag to the seat. She assesses him for a moment – it reminds him of that blonde middle blocker from Karasuno – the same shrewd gaze and knowing look. She replies slowly, “Yes. You sit three rows behind me.”

“I know I remembered you from somewhere,” he smiles unknowingly – it’s almost insulting how he insinuates how unremarkable she is, how overlooked she is and not worth taking note of – it’s done in an unintentional way, he doesn’t mean to sound harsh, but the insinuation is still there.

Her eyebrow twitches. Just because she doesn’t talk doesn’t mean that she does not _exist._ She’s friends with Iwaizumi, supposedly his best friend – she’ll save that quip to rub in his face later – and is almost always with him, every lunch.

But Oikawa Tooru is a different breed of a man altogether.

.

Oikawa Tooru is nothing but an enigma.

She has heard of him of course – through rumor and by passing glances – he is, after all, Iwaizumi’s best friend— _guy friend,_ she corrects. She knows how popular he is, how charismatic he is, how brilliant, and how talented a volleyball player he is. She’s heard of it all, from his fangirls – who don’t know how to lower their fucking _pitch_ – to her peers who envy him.

Iwa speaks about him of course, sometimes when he’s venting, when he’s feeling prideful or proud. It’s complicated, but she understands.

It’s one of the reasons she doesn’t want to watch Iwaizumi play in the first place.

The attention.

Aoba Johsai is _notorious_ for its volleyball team.

The media, is a double-edged sword. She doesn’t like it, not only does bad journalism seem to come up more often than the most, but she hates the glorification of it. The way it takes a single comment, theory, or perspective to misinterpret and demonize a person when really, it’s just a misunderstanding. It gives her anxiety, just from the thought of it. She likes the shadow, the quiet sense of accomplishment, and keeping things up in the air—just to keep people guessing.

It’s that not she doesn’t want to support her school or Iwa, but she generally likes to stay out of the limelight.

She doesn’t belong there.

.

He’s seen her before, in chemistry and an elective—language maybe.

Oikawa has heard of Iwaizumi’s little friendship with a girl in their year, she’s everything but unremarkable. She doesn’t look at him, so his eyes trail off more than once and they stay on her more than he would like to admit.

_She’s different._

She doesn’t follow his club – despite being one of the main reasons the school is so popular – sticking mostly to Iwa when the timing is right. Always before noon, after lunch, and then sometimes he leaves with her on Wednesday nights. He thought there’s something going on between the two of them, but Iwa is _never_ flustered with her and that makes him rethink his own thoughts.

It confuses him though, how someone so remarkable could take up such little space.

But Oikawa doesn’t know her the way Iwa knows her and that bothers him just a little.

However, right now, it still looks like she won’t give him the time of day and he can’t treat her like one of his fans because she _isn’t_ one of his fans—it’s refreshing as it is nerve-wracking.

Oikawa prides himself in being able to read the room – and ignoring it as usual – picking up on the emotions of his teammates, the things his friends do not say, and consider the actions of the team before even speaking. He knows he has remarkable intuition and is able to shift the mood with just a few words.

He knows this.

But still, Oikawa cannot _read_ her.

.

Oikawa, she has to give him credit, is pretty incredible.

Her eyes had widened during their practice game, the way they circle him, a near-perfect circle, anticipating their captain’s move—not a true circle, almost like gravity they drift towards him. He knows _exactly_ how to manipulate his teammates into doing their best and putting them in the best positions to encounter the ball.

The ball is the _goal._

Keep it in the air as much as they can because the first person to drop the ball _loses_. 

Number thirteen serves the ball, it’s received with a ninety-eight-degree angle, nearly brushes the net and number two receives it, pushes it toward Oikawa, he sets it to Iwa, and Iwa spikes it.

It’s a set point now.

Really, it’s textbook, the way they set everything up, but then the opposing team sends a spike that fractures through their defense and she sees it—

_—there._

“Iwa!” her mouth is moving before her brain even processes the sudden change in motion, she yells from the sidelines – later she’ll berate herself for _yelling_ during a _practice_ match – and stands up abruptly, “Extend your elbows and use your knees!”

Iwaizumi flinches at her voice, inhales sharply, and follows her instructions on instinct.

The ball just barely goes over the net—just _barely._

She exhales.

And Oikawa focuses all his attention on _her._


	2. you're too good (too good to be true)

Sports is all about angles. It doesn’t matter what kind of game it is, what kind of ball or rules the sport follows. There are only a handful of variables needed to be calculated, coupled with physical strength and intuition. Quite frankly, it’s a headache. She suddenly feels a surge of respect towards Oikawa.

To do all of that and keeping calm—ridiculous.

She rubs the bridge of her nose with two fingers.

“Alright!” Iwaizumi yells out, he surrounds her vision, picks her up, and swings her around in a circle.

“Get _off_!” she yelps, it’s a cross between a squeak and a whine, “You’re all sweaty and gross!”

 _Hygiene,_ she wished people would try it.

Once he puts her down, number three – Hanamaki – is next to him. The entire team is. He stares at her with shock, “How did you know Iwa should’ve extended his elbows?”

Iwaizumi answers before she can.

“That’s what she does,” Iwa pats her head sweetly and ignores her frown, “She’s a stats major. Analyzing, calculating, and solving problems is her gift.”

“She’s better than the Captain,” Matsukawa says with disbelief and winces with Oikawa suddenly pats him on the back; rougher than he intended.

“A stats major, huh?” Oikawa repeats thoughtfully and looks at her shrewdly.

She almost smiles at his sudden intensity, but it doesn’t benefit her in any way to give away the game.

“What about his knees?”

“Iwa angles his knees to whoever is closest to him,” she explains suddenly and watches him carefully, “It’s probably a reflex, people do the same thing with their feet, if he shifts his stance at least two degrees to the left he has enough room to make a stronger spike,” then she glances at the net, “However, the time it takes to relay those instructions versus the time it would take for him to actually _move_ —it would be useless. But if he bends his knees to absorb more of the shock, it gives him more momentum so it gives him just enough power to allow the ball to go over the net. It’s not efficient, but it _is_ effective.”

Oikawa just looks at her – she can’t define his expression – his mahogany-colored orbs glimmer with something akin to wonder and elaborates, “And if you take into account his speed, it gave him just enough strength to push the ball over.”

“You got all of that in a few seconds?” Yahaba gapes.

She shrugs, “It’s not all that difficult.”

Oikawa hates geniuses, but she is not the same. He doesn’t think she could be, because she waits at the last possible second to give an opening and then calls Iwa out. The contrast between their personalities is both hypocritical and similar.

.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa starts off softly, almost as if he’s cooing but really, he’s trying to soften his best friend up for the next blow, “I want her to be our manager.”

Iwaizumi drops his towel on the metal bench in the locker room. He’s reeling from that statement – he sees it when he turns to look at him slowly, so slowly, the captain can see the veins in his neck protrude from skin – and fixes him a look that borders on pinched. It’s not the first time Oikawa has made outrageous comments, but it’s the first time he looks serious about it.

“You want…her to be our manager?” Iwa repeats with more apprehension than confusion.

“Her statistic expertise would be an asset to our strategies and training sessions,” Oikawa replies simply; a logical and rational response.

Iwaizumi absolutely _hates_ it.

His captain goes on, “She analyzes much faster than I can, with her standing away from the court she has a better perception of the team. She can gauge the speed, track the movements and correct the members with just her sight alone.”

Over the years, Iwaizumi has gotten better at reading his best friend. There are a lot of things he doesn’t say, some of the words he has to read in between the lines, and sometimes his words are a double-edged sword—he knows how to use them well. From that point on, it seems like a reasonable request – even if it really is a _demand_ – and it _bothers_ him that Oikawa could sound so _sensible._

Not that Oikawa isn’t capable of making rational decisions, but it’s this one—this one, in particular, is outside the box and he made it seem like it was the obvious _conclusion._

“We can ask her after school,” Iwa says instead and slips on his shirt, “I can’t guarantee she’ll say yes.”

“She did come to practice,”

“That’s different,” he points out and zips up his hoodie, “I made a deal with her, so she had no choice.”

“Did our Iwa-chan _blackmail_ someone?” he gasps dramatically, eyes twinkling and the mood shifts—just like that. He’s smiling, sweet and good. His attention is razor-sharp even when unscrews the cap to his water bottle.

He grunts.

.

“You know Iwa, we could've gotten some riceballs from _Mina’s,_ right?” she raises a brow when the waiter gives them their drinks – there’s a niggling feeling in the back of her head as to why Oikawa is here – she has a vague idea, but it’s so preposterous that it doesn’t make _sense._

Yet, what is the probability that he will propose such a thought?

She bites the inside of her cheek; the percentage is higher than she would like.

“We volleyball players need solid meals,” he quips back and takes a sip of his iced tea, “Not all of us can live off riceballs and tempura.”

“Have you ever tried?”

Oikawa’s eyes flicker from Iwa and back to her—assessing their relationship with quick glances and subtle movements. The atmosphere is friendly, lazy even and yet there’s a subtle edge—almost as if she’s anticipating for him to speak. He almost laughs, it’s been a while since he’s met someone so keen to play.

“I prefer ramen and the occasional tempura roll,” Oikawa chimes in after a moment and pokes his bowl of udon, “Iwa-chan here likes to eat curry.”

“I know,” she says a matter-of-factly.

He bites the inside of his cheek; of course, she would know. Iwaizumi and her are best friends— _best_ friends. He needs to try another point of attack. He takes a bite of his bok choy, “Do you play any sports?”

“I can barely walk,” she deadpans and sips her soup, “What makes you think I can play a sport?”

“She is as graceful as an elephant,” Iwaizumi teases and yelps when she gives him a solid kick from underneath the table.

“What Iwa means is that I prefer watching from afar,” she rolls her eyes and gives him a half-smile.

_There._

That’s exactly what Oikawa was waiting for; really, she should’ve expected that.

.

“That’s perfect,” Oikawa smiles and sips his coffee, “Our new manager should always have the vantage point.”

A slow silence follows after.

“What?” she blurts out – yes, she was expecting this line of thinking, but not _this_ way – and blinks rapidly. He didn’t even _ask_ her to join, he just said that she was, there’s no wiggle room, no negotiating and she thinks that maybe—maybe he planned this.

“Did Iwa-chan not tell you?” he tilts his head innocently and he knows he’s going to get the brunt of Iwaizumi’s ire later, but sacrifices are needed to be made to receive that one thing—that one person he needs the most. “The team thought you’re analytical skills would benefit the team and pull us through Nationals. Being such a gifted stats major, we assumed that you enjoy the excitement that comes with solving a problem—Iwa-chan’s little correction wasn’t the only wrong you saw happening, was it?”

Iwaizumi didn’t put two and two together until it was too late.

Oikawa’s single-mindedness to get what he wants is as strong as his ambition to be the _best_ of the _best._ So tossing Iwa under the bus without it even being true isn’t too far of a stretch, especially since he _agreed_ with Oikawa and the rest of the team will too. Iwaizumi internally snarls at his childhood friend’s subtle maneuvering, but he can’t help the small surge of pride that shoots out of him.

That was truly, excellent handling.

.

The thing with monitoring the atmosphere and the conversation is that it’s not linear. A shift or a jump in tension can topple the energy into any direction. She seems calm, at least outwardly, inwardly is a different story. She has trained herself to assess the situation, calculate the outcome and adjust accordingly—for that, she must remain calm. If she even as much as let the first fresh crack of her temper bleed out, she will miss something.

To keep a cool head, keep the situation even means that she has stepped one foot in hell and walked away unscathed; all solutions used.

“Usually, when asking for a favor or a _job,_ in this case, requires a _proposal_ of some sorts,” she replies blandly, “I don’t remember being _asked_ to be a manager.”

And Iwaizumi, smartly, sips his tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not Friday, but here's a new part!   
> pls drop a comment on your way out <3  
> come speak to me on [tumblr](https://sleepysonia.tumblr.com)


	3. tell me (why do we fight?)

If anything, point to Iwaizumi.

That’s whose fault this is.

She doesn’t know _how_ or _what_ or _why_ or when, but all she knows that it’s all _his_ fault. She had no idea how she got roped into managerial duties, but she knows that Aoba Johsai’s Volleyball Vice-Captain had a hand in it. She will have _words_ with Iwa, once she gets her bearings together and her brain wrapped around this—this _thing._

When she looks at this situation from a different angle, from a different point of view, she can’t help but wonder if she allowed herself to get manipulated into this ordeal. She wants to support Iwaizumi, she wants to be there for him, she wants her school team to be the best—does she want the limelight?

_—no of course not, she doesn’t. She doesn’t like it, doesn’t need it, doesn’t understand it, but secretly she wants to be appreciated for the work she puts in—is it? Is it so bad to want to be appreciated? Is it? Is it?—_

In the end, it might have worked out for the best. That’s what she has to believe in. She gets managerial skills, an in-depth focus in visual mathematics across a field, and a pretty block of words on her resume. An extracurricular activity and leadership abilities. It’s a nice check in a tiny box.

“Hey!” Oikawa calls out from the sidelines and it blinks her back into reality, “Did you get all that?”

And she can’t forget her main pain in the ass.

Oikawa Tooru.

.

The first week is more of a hazing than anything. She may be exceptional with formulas, calculations, and estimations, but when it comes to memorizing names—she was terrible. Why must they all have complicated names? She grips her clipboard and makes notes of the players.

Words against visual stimuli should help.

“So you’re our new manager, huh?” Hanamaki – she gathers from the pink of his hair – drawls over, his hands behind his head and a raised brow pointing at her.

“So it seems,” she says blandly and looks back at her clipboard. She prompts, “You’re Hanamaki Takahiro, yes?”

He blinks, “Yes.”

“Have you ever broken your ankle? The left one?” she asks suddenly, eyes flickering over to his leg and takes a step back.

Hanamaki stares at her in mild surprise and stammers, “How did you know that?”

“You have a slight lag in your left leg, I assume it’s because of a childhood injury or some sort. You hesitate when you jump, it might just be muscle memory or you’re unconsciously careful about injuring yourself. It wasn’t a painless accident, right? When you break a bone or sprain a tendon—whatever injury you have, after it heals, that broken part of you grows stronger. You have more flexibility with that limb,” she explains and tugs the clipboard underneath her arm, “So don’t be afraid to be more aggressive with your movements.”

Perhaps, she could’ve had a bit more tact when speaking – she’s sure she sounded like a robot there – but sometimes when she’s so hyper-focused on a thing, a person or an idea—it’s all she can think about.

Oikawa gets the same way. 

.

“So what do you think?” Iwaizumi takes a seat next to her on the bleachers once the team rang in for a break. He glances at the weird scribbling on the clipboard and raises a brow at her disbelief.

“Well,” she begins and then sighs, “I don’t know, Iwa. What am I even doing here? I don’t know how to manage about of teenagers.”

“You do realize, _you_ are a teenager too, right?” he snorts and rests his head back. “You’re doing _fine._ ”

She scoffs, “Easy for you to say.”

The truth of the matter is, she doesn’t _know_ what she’s supposed to be doing. Yes, she can tell them: _adjust your form, pull your elbows in, two degrees to the left—_ technical skills obviously, but when it comes to the point, that’s all she can offer. Is it enough? That was the real question.

“We have a practice match soon?” Matsukawa asks as he walks over to the duo sitting in the chairs.

“Uh,” she flips a few pages on her clipboard, “Yeah, with Date Tech. Next Thursday.”

He grimaces, “That seems really far away.”

“Probably,” she knows that they lost the match against Karasuno and that really seeped underneath their skin the worst ways. It’s probably not a good idea to bring out the word _Nationals_ anyway, it’s best she thread carefully and speaks slowly, “It’s the location we have to think about anyway. We’re going to have terrible weather for the next few days.”

“What she means is that we aren’t going to _Nationals_ so most of the teams are booked for practice,” Oikawa decides to translate flippant, polite, and condescending all at the same time. He smiles when he does this, eyes crinkling at the edges, the insincere mask polished with a fake smile, he may sound apologetic, but the light doesn’t rise in his eyes, “You don’t have to beat around the bush here, doll.”

Her eye twitches.

_Doll._

This is what she gets for using diplomacy.

“Uh, Oikawa I don’t think,” Matsukawa can feel the tension already beginning to crackle from his left and Iwaizumi is a little too flustered to diffuse the situation, so he has to do it, he muses, “Our new manager just started. I doubt that she was able to set up—”

“And so?” she doesn’t need anyone to explain her reasons for her.

She’s more than capable of doing it herself. It’s not like she wants to be the manager of the team, because even she, who is a third-year will be graduating and she has more important things to do than manage a bunch of sweaty, testosterone-fueled teenage boys. _They_ forced her into this and she’s going to see it through the end. Oikawa is just going to have to shut his fucking mouth.

Iwa knows better than to say something in this situation.

She presses her lips together and her temper frays at the edges, “You lost your chance to go through the Nationals. Alright. So what? Do you just give up because Karasuno decided to give you a run for their money? I got you practice matches because everything is booked, so instead of sulking like a little _bitch,_ I suggest you humbly thank me for finding teams that want to practice with the ‘oh so’ _infamous_ Aoba Johsai Volleyball team.”

Oikawa stares at her with wide eyes.

.

The thing with being able to calculate every movement, every angle, speed, and momentum is that she has to remain at a level head. She has to be calm—be _rational_ when explaining her answers, her solutions, and her outcome. She has to be _reasonable_ when deflecting, objecting, and defending her answer. She has to be _willing_ to be flexible when her initial conclusion is not completely correct.

But Oikawa Tooru brings out the weakest, most vulnerable sides from her. Dangling her weaknesses, her shortcomings in front of her like some kind of bait and _fuck,_ if she can’t help but take it.

Even now, when she wants to strangle him for his audaciousness, she also wants to commend him for using it as a contrasting point to adjust the conversation to the subject she really wants to talk about but doesn’t know _how_ to talk about it.

Oikawa is very well aware of his flaws and uses them as a weapon—that’s the difference between the two of them.

She hates that she can’t help but admire him for it.


	4. please don’t take it (take it personal)

The month goes on, sluggishly.

Oikawa and her butt heads at least three times a week. More so on his end, but it’s done with a passive tone and false smiles. Iwaizumi thinks this Oikawa’s way of reading her personality and thought process. It’s a surprisingly shrewd way of picking up the nuances in her character and using it to his advantage because that is what his _captain_ does and he does it purposefully.

“What’d you get for number eight?” Iwaizumi mumbles from the left and scribbles something on his notebook.

“Thirty-five point eight,” she replies and frowns at the stray eraser marks on the desk.

“ _How?”_

“You literally use a calculator, Iwa,”

“For the people who _don’t_ like numbers, Manager,” Iwa retorts back hotly.

She sighs.

“What our precious manager is trying to explain, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa takes a seat next to her – he’s never done this before, _what is he doing?_ – she grows alarmed when she hears the sound of his bag resting against the windowsill of the classroom. “Is that you have to plug in the numbers in the equation setting and the calculator will tell you the answer, get it?”

Iwa mutters something dark and incomprehensible from underneath his breath—something about _crap_ and _annoying._ She’s very aware of his elbow when it brushes the side of her sleeve, she’s hypersensitive from the brush of warmth that prickles up her covered arms and she is wary of the fact that he smells _exactly_ what she thought rain smelled like.

Class ends the same way it began; slowly.

.

Perhaps, she’s paranoid.

Perhaps, there’s something wrong with the fact that every dark corner seems to jump out at her.

Perhaps, she’s just losing her mind.

Oikawa is just suddenly… _there._

Almost as if he’s always been there. In class, in art class, electives, loitering the halls, eating lunch on the rooftop, in the library sweet-talking the librarian, sometimes he’s in the cafeteria with his team, other times he’s outside the school waiting for Iwaizumi. She hears him before she sees him, that’s the worst thing—it’s like she’s so _aware_ of him now that it borders on unreasonable.

She gets enough of him from the Volleyball Club, but for him to invade her personal thoughts with his _loud, obnoxious,_ and _pretty_ voice had consequences—

—all thoughts come to a grinding halt and she blinks.

_Pretty._

She blanches.

This is not going well.

.

“Doll,” Oikawa starts with that _stupid_ nickname, he looks at her with concern and puts back his water bottle back on the table, “Are you not eating?”

She glances down at her half-eaten bento.

To be honest, ever since she realized that she thought Oikawa was attractive – cue her internal berating at noon – and _intelligent_ , she saw those high marks on his last trig exam, she had practically gone into a catatonic state. She always knew the volleyball captain was pretty, charming, strong, and smart—she knew.

But what she didn’t know is that it _affected_ her on a personal level.

Sure she could have platonic friendships with pretty boys because she’s not _attracted_ to them, however, she can’t have platonic friendships with boys she’s attracted to—it makes her feel sick.

“Uh,” she almost stammers – she slaps herself inwardly; _get it together_ – and pokes her rice, “I’m not all that hungry.”

“You barely ate this morning,” Hanamaki is the one that points this out, he frowns and hands her a juice box from his bag, “At least drink something. The sugar will give you some energy.”

She blinks at the sudden box of apple juice in her hands, she hadn’t realized how considerate these boys are, an oversight on her part, and smiles, “Thank you, Makki.”

Hanamaki, not expecting his new manager to use his nickname in a fond and affectionate matter, flushes at the way his shortened name seems like a term of endearment coming from her at least. Makki isn’t the only one who’s surprised by the switch in tones, Iwa pats her head and Matsukawa snickers at Oikawa’s expression.

It’s a cross between frustrated and irritated.

At least, that’s what Kindaichi thinks.

.

“Are you nervous because it’s your first practice game – I mean we know you set up the last one with Date Tech but had an exam the same day and couldn’t go – that you’re going to?” Kindaichi asks not unkindly taking a seat across from her on the bus.

“Partly,” she can’t tell him her stomach is tingling from other things, “I haven’t seen you all play a game before—I mean excluding to that one I saw when Iwa invited me.”

“You were mostly watching me,” Iwaizumi takes a seat next to her, which in turn causes Oikawa to take the other seat next to her – _g_ _oddamit_ Iwa – and she presses her hands into track pants.

“Yes well,” she sniffs and focuses on the window behind Kindaichi, “You were the only one that I knew.”

“Now, you know all of us,” Oikawa is quick to jump in – she makes a face – but nods nonetheless, “We all know I’m your favorite.”

“In your _dreams,_ you piece of crap,” Iwaizumi snorts and punches him from behind her shoulders.

“Oh, she _is,_ ”

“That’s totally not creepy, Oikawa,” Makki laughs from the other side of the bus.

Her lips twitch upwards – Oikawa’s eyes widen at that but he bites his tongue – and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Fingers already snapping open her notebook, her notes written in graphite and annotated with a black marker. She has tiny little notes—each section dedicated to a member.

It’s just her luck that she flips open to Oikawa’s page.

“Is that—me?” Oikawa leans over, his hair brushing the sensitive edges of her ear and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to distract herself from the shivers that caress her form. His eyes blink as he takes in her statistics, his personal information, the corrections, and a little doodle of him at the corner of the page.

“It’s a stat book,” she hopes her voice doesn’t sound rough, “I made one for all the members. It’s how I measure progress and…” she inhales when he shifts his body to mirror hers, “…and make notes.”

Oikawa laughs suddenly, genuinely, and the force of his body vibrates against hers, “You really are something else, aren’t you, doll?”

.

It’s like the entire country is under a monsoon. It’s wet, rainy, and windy. Her track jacket is thin regardless of the weather and even though it’s waterproof—the wind demands to be felt. She tightens her grip on her bag and secures it across her body. She licks her lips and shoves her hair beneath the back of her jacket. She shivers again when another gust of wind topples over the team.

“Did you bring another jacket?” Oikawa asks when they start to walk towards the school from the parking lot.

“No,” she answers shortly and then adds after a moment, “I’m fine.”

“You’re trembling,” he comments lightly and grabs her hand. He flinches dramatically, “And your hands are literally like ice!”

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” she rolls her eyes and walks faster; maybe she can walk in between the raindrops.

Highly illogical of course, but it’s the thought that counts.

Then, Oikawa grabs her hand again, tugs her until her back is flat against his chest, shoves both of her hands into his jacket pockets, and walks with her—faintly she hears Iwa say something about _penguins._

“There,” Oikawa nods more to himself than her and scolds her both serious and playful, “You should know better. Athletes always make sure to bundle, we can’t risk getting sick. You can’t either, you’re our precious manager after all.”

She stammers, the tingling in her stomach morphing into tiny flutters, “You don’t have to manhandle me, Oikawa!”

“Now who’s being melodramatic,” he rolls his eyes even though she can’t see and they walk to the school slowly. The heat radiating from him feels eases the ache in her bones and shields her from the harsh wind, “Besides, I don’t think you mind it, doll.”

She recognizes those flutters; it’s the same ones she got when she first saw Tuxedo Mask debut on _Sailor Moon._

**Author's Note:**

> pls drop a comment on your way out <3  
> catch me on [tumblr](https://sleepysonia.tumblr.com)


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